


No Time for Later

by Teaotter



Category: Garth Nix - Abhorsen series
Genre: F/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:Sib
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/pseuds/Teaotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sabriel has grown accustomed to relying on herself alone. But she's not alone any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Time for Later

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sib](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sib).



> This story contains spoilers for _Sabriel_.

Golden charter marks float in Sabriel's mind: marks for healing and relief from pain. They flicker uncertainly as her exhaustion flares through her. She forces herself to focus, to reach inside herself for the reserves that seem far too familiar of late. It sends a spike of pain down her spine, but the marks strengthen enough for her to grab them and push them into the boy's unconscious body.

Sabriel gasps and opens her eyes. The marks flow down her arm and hover for a moment under the boy's skin, before snapping into place. Through the thin blanket wrapped around him, she can see the skin of his arms unblister, and his wheezing breaths loosen and quiet into the steady shushing of normal sleep.

"He'll live," Sabriel tells the boy's mother, who is watching with anxious eyes.

"Thank you, Abhorsen," the woman says, already turning back to the child.

Sabriel watches the woman as she gently straightens the boy's hair, touches his cheek. In the dim light of the makeshift infirmary, the boy could be anyone's son. Even hers. She tries to imagine that life: a child, safety only occasionally broken by danger. The luxury of ignoring that danger while tending to her own family.

Sabriel shakes her head at that and turns back to the reality around her. Dozens of people are cramped in amongst the shelves and table of Zoare's tiny general store -- the only building that survived the blaze well enough to be of any use. More people cluster around the door, looking as dazed as she feels. None of them had expected to spend their pre-dawn hours struggling to save their town.

She knows that most of the townsfolk are still hard at work, dragging as much as they can from the charred remains of their homes.

When three people had gone missing in less than a week, Zoare's headman had assumed it might be a necromancer, or perhaps some of the minor Dead risen from a nearby cemetery. He sent word to the capital, requesting the Abhorsen. The people's trust in their new government was still shaky, and Sabriel had felt it was imperative to answer such a direct call for help. Touchstone had sent four of his newly re-formed Royal Guard with her, expecting a relatively simple banishing like dozens that Sabriel had performed over the last few months.

They had not been prepared for an entire nest of adolescent skeel, Free Magic creatures who could set fires with a touch and feed off the flames. Sabriel and the guards had spent the entire night chasing them down, one by one, and had tracked the last one to the village in the hours before dawn. It had caught half the town ablaze before Sabriel could bring it down.

A brief flare of Charter magic draws Sabriel's eyes to the corner where Dravyn is healing the headman's burned arm. The marks catch the light for only a moment before sinking into the man's skin.

Sabriel takes a moment to remind herself, again, to thank Touchstone for making her take Dravyn on this mission. Dravyn was one of the newest recruits to Touchstone's rebuilt Royal Guard, but the strength of his magic had more than made up for his inexperience. Despite the exhausting night they'd spent chasing the skeel, he seems fit enough to help the rest of those who are still badly wounded.

Sabriel herself feels as though she could lie down and sleep for a week. Another feeling with which she has become far too familiar.

"Abhorsen." The familiar voice draws her back to herself, and Sabriel takes the proffered hand and lets Killiane draw her to her feet. The older woman's red and gold tabard is scorched, her face sooty. "The headman says that they will accept our escort to Belisaere. The wagons will be ready before midmorning."

Sabriel rubs at the ash on her own coat and considers what she has learned of the countryside. "We can be back in the city by nightfall, right?"

Killiane nods.

"Then we'll leave as soon as the wagons are ready." Her cloak is outside with her horse, but suddenly her feet are too tired to even consider the walk.

Killiane smiles a bit. "I'll wake you," she says, half hint and half unspoken order.

Under the circumstances, Sabriel isn't going to argue. She curls up under a table and is asleep almost before her eyes close.

Two hours hour later, she is sitting wearily in the saddle. Six months ago, she had never even been on a horse; these days, it seemed she spent half her days there. She lets her mind wander as they reach the main road to Belisaere, content to let the guardsmen handle any threats they might meet. Even a month ago, traveling this road would have been more dangerous. Before Touchstone had re-formed the Royal Guard and begun restoring order to the kingdom.

Touchstone had allowed himself to be crowned only last month, when Sabriel had finally been able to pronounce Belisaere completely free of the Dead. The ceremony was short, but as full of pomp as they had been able to manage with a government largely in tatters. Even finding uniforms for the Guards had been a challenge. But the cautious hope she heard in the voice of the crowd had made it worthwhile.

Even so, they both know that all their work will be for nothing unless Touchstone can discover how to heal the broken Great Charters. While Sabriel is out spending her exhausting days hunting rumors of necromancers less than ten miles from the city, Touchstone is spending his own days in the frigid waters of the reservoir, struggling to do what no one has done since the Wallmakers.

It seems sometimes as if there hasn't been time to breathe since her father's death. She and Touchstone had gone almost immediately from the battle with Rogir, from which they had barely escaped with their lives, to the battle for Belisaere, and on without pause to the restoration of the kingdom.

There are days when she stands in Death and wishes desperately that she could let the river carry her away. Other days, she dreams of running back to Ancelstierre and a life far less treacherous than this one. But there are still living people in the Old Kingdom, people like that boy in Zoare who would have died today if there were no Abhorsen. She can see him, wrapped in blankets on his mother's lap, still sleeping peacefully.

And Touchstone himself: his face hovers in her mind's eye for a long moment, patient and loving. She couldn't imagine living without him, now. Didn't want to imagine losing him.

And so she squashes those wishes again as ruthlessly as she can, and rides quietly among the townsfolk to Belisaere.

*******

 

Sabriel and the townsfolk reach the edge of Belisaere well before sundown, for which she is grateful. She doesn't like riding through the city streets at night, even with an escort of royal guards. Perhaps especially with such an escort, for it reminds her too strongly of the last long months of hunting the Dead within the city walls.

She leaves the villagers at the town hall, where the chancellor has been finding room within the city walls for those who come to take refuge there.

The royal flag flies above the iron gate of a great house near the outskirts of the city. The house had once held a merchant with money but little taste -- from the decor -- and even fewer morals: like many who had survived in broken Belisaere, the merchant had bargained with the Dead. Until the palace can be rebuilt, the king and his retainers need a defensible place to live, and the merchant now had no further need for his worldly belongings.

Sabriel dismounts and lets the guards take her horse to the stables. She pauses only long enough for the man at the door to verify her Charter mark -- a piece of security she agrees with, so that no impostor might have a chance to slay the king -- and steps into the dim foyer.

She blinks for a moment in the gloom, then nods to the servant coming down the carved wooden staircase. "Good evening, Hammond."

"Good evening, Abhorsen." He nods sharply in return and stops to help her with her coat. He glances down at the sooty spots her boots are leaving on the carpet, but doesn't directly mention them, so she refuses to feel guilty for not cleaning them at the door. "The King is with Gorden in the library," he informs her as she turns away.

She turns back to look him in the eye. "Thank you," she says, keeping her gaze even. It comes easier with each passing day, and she has hope that some day she will not be expecting to be scolded. It is clear that the servants, and likely the guards, all know about her liaison with Touchstone, but no one has hinted at any disapproval of the impropriety. She isn't entirely sure that it is an impropriety on this side of the Wall. Certainly no one has made even the faintest joke in her hearing.

She supposes they might be making jokes beyond her hearing, but she doesn't have the energy to deal with such things.

The library is upstairs, and, like much of the house, overrun with floral motifs -- hand-painted peonies on the wallpaper, lotus and orchids on the upholstery, carved wooden roses on every item of furniture. Touchstone had ordered most of the still-lifes taken down, but it still seems rather like walking into an overcrowded florist shop.

"Sabriel!" Touchstone's voice holds relief, and worry. "What happened?"

It is Gorden's concerned look that reminds Sabriel that she is still dirty, sooty, and lightly coated with horse hair. She scrubs her hands down her surcoat in slight embarrassment, then stops. They have both seen her in worse. "There were skeel."

She gives them a brief description of events, and they relax. She realizes from Touchstone's grip on her hand that he was more worried than he let on. She squeezes back, trying to show him that she's fine.

He smiles at her, and she knows that, if the Royal Secretary weren't in the room, he would kiss her.

"I'm glad that you've returned safely, Abhorsen," Gorden says, turning to gather up the papers on the desk. He isn't waiting to be dismissed. "Is there anything else, Your Majesty?"

Sabriel wonders if there was ever a point when Gorden didn't know.

Touchstone waves him off. "No, no. We can finish this later."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Abhorsen."

When Gorden leaves, he shuts the door. It's just another part, Sabriel knows, of his... collaboration with all of this.

She can only be grateful for it, though, because she can't wait for the click of the latch before pulling Touchstone into her arms. And he seems more than happy to be there.

"Sabriel. Were you hurt?"

"No. Just tired and muddy." She sighs, and traces a smudge she left on his cheek. "We chased them all night."

His left hand scratches a bit as it slides across the nap of her surcoat, and Sabriel catches it to see why. There is a fresh scar on his palm. Healed over, but it had not been there yesterday morning when he kissed her goodbye.

"Blood." He sighs and shifts back, though he doesn't let her go. "If it is blood that breaks them, I thought... I hoped that blood might help them, as well. I could feel something this time. I think I'm right."

Sabriel carefully kisses the new scar and places the hand over her heart. "I'm glad."

And she is -- glad for him, glad for herself, glad for all of them. If he can heal the Great Charter Stones, then there is hope that her work might hold. That Belisaere, and perhaps the entire kingdom, could be free of the Dead for long enough... Long enough.

His hand begins to move, tracing the edge of her bandolier, and it occurs to her that it is, as usual, fairly uncomfortable to hold her lover while wearing her sword and bells. She pulls away slowly, letting him see her reluctance.

He lets her go a bit more easily than usual, and whereas she knows she's a mess, she hadn't thought it bothered him. She leans her sword against the wall and places the bandolier more carefully on the sideboard. She turns to look over her shoulder, and yes, he's turned away. She takes a deep breath. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He says too quickly, and she can see him stiffen before he turns back to her. He seems to steel himself for a moment, and Sabriel holds her breath in sudden dismay. "The Clayr send their regards. And their congratulations. On the baby."

"Oh." The breath comes out all at once, and her knees don't hold. Sabriel sinks down onto the overstuffed arm of a side chair.

Touchstone looks at her carefully. "You knew, didn't you. I thought you might."

"I..."

Touchstone grabs her arms as if he would shake her, but doesn't. She sees the flush climbing his face, and knows that he is fighting his temper. She thinks she probably deserves his anger, but she also knows that she doesn't get to make that decision. After a long moment, he drops his head to rest his forehead against hers. "Sabriel. Sabriel."

She thinks he might go on, but he stops and loosens his grip. She knows in a flash that he isn't going to ask. He'll let it go, let her keep her secrets. She also knows that she can't stand to see him turn away from her like this.

"I knew." She has to clear her throat, and then isn't sure what to say beyond that. "The last time I walked in Death. I sensed another spirit within me." Her hand wants to creep to her belly, but she keeps it away.

She can feel the same abortive move in his hands on her arms.

"The necromancer in Masford." She can hear the traces of anger and old fear in his voice. "You almost died."

She presses her forehead harder against his, and wishes she could see his face. "I was distracted."

After a moment, his hands slip down to her waist, still loose enough for her to break away. She puts her own arms around his neck, refusing to let go. She can feel him thinking.

"Can the babe survive?" he asks softly. "In Death?"

"I can protect the spirit somewhat." She tries to shrug, and feels his tension mount. Pressed together like this, it is so much harder for her to be confident for him. Especially when she's frightened. "Other Abhorsens have borne children."

His hands tighten on her back. "Not in times like these."

She can feel the strain in him and imagines that he remembers all the days of exhaustion, all the nights when she would cry and he would pretend to sleep so that she could face him in the morning. He has always given her so much, even when he had nothing left for himself.

She leans forward and brushes a kiss against his cheek. "We will survive this, too."

He catches her in a kiss. When he breaks it, they are both breathless.

"At some point, you will be too big to fight." He tries to make it a joke, but she can hear the seriousness underneath.

She holds him tighter. "I'll face that when it comes."

He pushes her away enough to look in her eyes. "You could go to Ancelstierre."

"What?"

He catches her hands, and she realizes she was pushing him away. "The Dead don't walk there."

She shakes her head hard enough to drag her hair in front of her face. She can't afford to think about that. "I'm needed here."

"And you'll still be needed when you return." He does shake her this time, before releasing her. "You both will."

Sabriel grabs him before he can move away. She wants to shake him. "You can't send me away!"

Once the words are out, she wishes she could take them back. She sounds like a child, a lost child, and that is something else she can't afford to think about. And Touchstone's expression is cold.

"I can." But then his face melts, and he pushes her hair back behind her ear gently. "But I will not. You are Abhorsen. You make your own path."

She grabs his hand, kisses it again. "I won't leave."

He sighs and pulls her into his arms. "And I am glad of it, even when it makes me fear for you."

She pulls him over to the couch, ignoring the riot of embroidered tulips, and kisses him as seriously as she can. He answers her with a desperation of his own, and it is several minutes later before either of them speaks.

For just a moment, Sabriel wants to be any other expectant mother. She lets her hand rest on her belly. "Did they say?"

Touchstone laughs softly and whispers in her ear. "It's a girl."

"A girl," she says, equally softly, as he twines his fingers with hers.

"Sabriel."

She looks up from their joined hands.

"Sabriel." He kisses her forehead and smiles at her, but his eyes are serious. "I would be honored if you would be my wife."

She's not sure if she stops breathing, but for a moment, it feels as if time stands still. She had put that dream behind her months before, when she realized that their lives would never be anything like what the other girls at Wyverly had gossiped about. She has a million reasons why it would never work. She'd thought that Touchstone knew them, too.

He's still talking, quietly but quickly, as if he thinks she might stop him. "I can't promise that I will always be there for you, or your daughter. But I would have the kingdom know that she is our child."

Sabriel sighs. "It would be too foolish to rest both of our bloodlines on one marriage."

"It would be foolish to believe that I would love another woman while we both live," he says heatedly.

She pulls into herself at his words, embarrassed that he would say it so baldly. Half of her wishes she could be so bold, that she could somehow make the same declaration to him. It sits at the end of her tongue, but she can't make herself say it. "I love you," she tries instead, but it sounds weak even to her.

"I know." He sits up and shifts to the far end of the couch. The room is much colder without him. "But you hardly let me love you."

Sabriel pushes herself to a sitting position, anger and hurt bubbling to the surface.

"You don't trust me." He throws the words at her like a knife. "You hold yourself together so tightly, as if letting me see you is a weakness you have to stamp out of yourself."

"I -- I do not try to hide from you!"

He snorts. "For someone who isn't trying, you succeed too well."

It seems so much like an exit line that Sabriel is surprised that Touchstone isn't leaving the room. He isn't even moving farther away, just waiting at his end of the overstuffed couch for the next things she says.

She wants it to be something angry, something cutting -- but she knows he isn't wrong. And he is still there, still waiting for her, when any sane person would have stopped trying long before. She knows that, no matter how much time she spends pushing him away, she doesn't really want him to go.

"I'm sorry." She can see the surprise on his face, the forgiveness and the love. When she puts out her hand, he takes it without hesitation. "I don't know how... this is done."

"This?"

"Love." She swallows the lump in her throat. "I've been depending upon myself alone for... a very long time."

"I see." He tilts his head to the side, thinking again, and it reminds her why she loves him so much. He really does understand her. "Is it so difficult, then, to imagine that I would be here for you? That I would want to?"

She squeezes his hand tighter. "I believe you would want to."

"But not that I could do it." He squeezes back and nods, still thinking. "And I cannot promise that my duties wouldn't take me away."

There is far too much space between them on the couch. "Nor can I."

He sighs. "Would you want a simpler man, then? One who could follow you where you must go?"

That pulls a shocked laugh out of her. Cut off, but real. "I -- I would want no one but you, you daft man!"

"Would you like me better, if I weren't King?" There is a hint of a smile on his face, but his voice is still serious. "I suppose I could grow a beard, slip away in the middle of the night..."

"Stop that!" She scoots forward far enough to punch his shoulder, though not as hard as she could. He laughs and tumbles her into his lap. "You couldn't abandon your responsibilities, and I wouldn't love you half so much if you could."

And somehow, here she is again, laughing and breathless in his arms. She settles herself more firmly in his lap and leans her head against his chest. She can feel the steady beat of his heart against her ear.

"Then it seems to me that marriage would be much the same as we are now. We would shirk our responsibilities as much as we dare, and muddle through." He kisses the tip of her nose. "Together."

She hums a little and closes her eyes. For once, it doesn't concern her that anyone might walk in.

He taps his fingers on her arm. "You haven't said no."

She feels so warm. She rubs her face against his surcoat, sneezing at the faint hint of smoke. "I haven't," she admits.

He gathers her closer, radiating contentment. "Then I can wait."

She could let him. She knows this, in the same drowsy way that she knows the warmth of his embrace. He would wait for her, for as long as it took for her to find the confidence to trust him with her heart. If he had to wait the whole of his life.

He really did mean it, when he said that marriage would be much like this. And this moment is exactly the kind of moment she would like to have for the rest of her life.

She sighs, and makes her decision. "You shouldn't wait too long. I would think a royal wedding takes a long time to arrange."

She feels him freeze for a moment, then release a long, slow breath. "Not as long as you might think. But yes, I suppose so." Are you sure?

"Then we should get started, shouldn't we?" Yes!

She wishes she'd taken off her boots. She considers trying to get them off, and decides it would take too much movement. She's too happy where she is.

"No." He's laughing again, and it draws a laugh out of her.

"No?" She tries to sound truly puzzled, but it falls apart into giggles as he kisses her again.

"No," he says firmly. "I think that my future wife and I might have better things to do this evening."

"Really?"

"I do."

Sabriel wraps her arms around his neck. "Convince me."


End file.
